FOR THE BEAUTY OF THE EARTH
WHEN I STRUGGLED from the burning Piper Cub, I was on fire.
With more determination than I had ever felt before, I stumbled toward the water till my knees buckled. I folded at the waist, and my face bowed into the sand. I heard the snapping of the flames on my back. The fur collar around the back of the leather jacket was burning, and I willed myself to rise, to stumble forward again toward the waves. I would fall into the water, then I would roll. The water would save me. Staggering toward the sea, I yanked off the jacket, but my unsteady legs gave way again.
Twisting myself, I rolled over the sand toward the surf. Though I thought to extinguish the flames by crushing them with my body, the rolling wrapped me in so much pain that I knew I would lose consciousness to escape it. My long skirt came untied and fell away. My blouse and my back were burning. I rose onto all fours and determined to crawl, but I stopped to rip away my blouse. My alertness was waxing and waning.
When I smelled my hair burning, I tried to yank it out. The seared skin of my naked back screamed. Though I collapsed forward, I drove my fingers down into the wet sand and pulled my body toward the water. Once more. Again I pulled and lunged forward. A wave broke over my outstretched hands and my forearms, over my forehead and face, finally—yes—dousing my back.
When the water receded, I gasped for breath and made myself roll sideways despite the pain. Sharp sand embedded itself into my burned back. Completely nude, I rolled into the water, turned faceup, and knew that I had killed the fire in my hair. The water was shallow, stunningly cold, divinely welcome to the burn on my back. For the briefest of respites, I floated on my back and registered the presence of the sky.
Remembering that the plane would surely explode, I rolled over and swam two strokes downward. When my hands met with slush, I knew I was now entirely submerged. Holding my breath under the water, I shoved my fingertips into the sandy bottom. I determined to stay attached there, moving my legs against the water only enough to keep my body anchored. Perhaps a foot of ocean covered me. If I turned over and sat up, surely I would be able to breathe—but not yet.
Finally, through the water, the muffled sound of explosion reached my ears.
I waited underwater as long as I could, then rolled over. When the skin of my buttocks found the unstable bottom, I realized anew that I had discarded or lost all that I wore—except Thom’s memory stick. I held it tightly. Had Thom given me a fireproof cord? The watertight, fireproof titanium case still hung from its black silk cord around my neck. I sat up, gasped for breath, and opened my eyes again.
The Piper Cub sat in a wigwam tangle of metal; its green-painted canvas was scorched brown and black. A bit of feeble and harmless flame continued to lick at the wreckage. A few jagged metal scraps of the exploded gas tank lay on the beach. I knew I was hurt, burned across my back and scalp, but for the moment I felt nothing but relief. And triumph. I was alive. Lucky.
Remember your name is Lucy, and Lucy is part of the word lucky. It’s always lucky just to be alive. Words my grandmother once said to me.
I sat in the water and surveyed my situation. What I saw around me seemed cut from the fabric of pure simplicity—blue sky, green sea. Unspeakably beautiful. More: my eyes glorified the sandy yellow neutrality of the beach. Cloud billows without motion hung in the blue. Lucky merely to be alive. Green water incessantly rocking like the sublime comfort of Grandmother’s soft sway. Lucky.
For a brief moment relief and beauty held pain at bay before their power dissolved. As though I and the plane were falling again, I saw an endless sea of bubbling green treetops rushing toward me. I heard again the desperate coughing of the little plane. No: I was sitting in the sea, not far from shore, coughing. Like a struck gong, my body rang with pain.
Think, my mind commanded itself.
Up there, from the air, I had seen someone, a man who might help me. Or I him. Like something discarded, he had lain on the riverbank.
Go on, inner voices commanded.
You know you can bear anything.
Where had I heard such voices? They seemed the voices of Thom’s parents—Thom, who was dead—his parents’ voices speaking from Auschwitz and Treblinka.
I must ignore the twisted wreckage of my plane. The pale beach was a blessing I must claim. I stood up in the shallow, blue-green water and took a step toward shore. I remembered the word Lascaux. A man named Pierre Saad had entrusted me with ancient, irreplaceable pages relevant to the book of Genesis, which I had thrown out the airplane door. The pain of the burn slammed against my back, and I staggered.
I shifted my feet in the slushy underwater sand to recalibrate my balance. Somehow I would reclaim the codex. My hand enclosed the memory stick.